


Keep Living

by rosycheeked



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Falling In Love, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Memories, Regrets, Roommates, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosycheeked/pseuds/rosycheeked
Summary: Harry has a lot of scars, and just as many regrets. He's obsessed, trapped, too wrapped up in the memories.Draco has a lot of regrets, and just as many scars.And then they're sharing them, those painful little moments, and finally letting go.To think all that it took was a little bit of inter-House unity, huh?





	Keep Living

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> It's a 1500-word character study of Harry! Yay! I always have fun writing angst. This one's a little less angsty and a little more fluffy at the end, oh well. I just wanted to write something that wasn't Auror partners for once—but I picked eighth year instead. From one trope to another!
> 
> Sigh. Enjoy!
> 
> E

When Harry is a baby, he receives his first scar. A curse scar. And that scar—it defines him.

That curse scar? It is its own curse. Since then, Harry receives scar after scar after scar—even though he’s a wizard. He never bothers with Dittany. He keeps them for the memories, the regrets, the promises he broke and mended and never got to keep.

When Harry is four, he is polishing yet another wineglass, trying to tune out Uncle Vernon insulting his parents in a fit of rage, wishing he would just _shut up_ —and then the glass shatters in his hand, shards flying everywhere. His hand sears with pain as tiny bits of glass dig into his flesh, and there’s blood on the floor, spreading, and he can’t look, can’t think about it.

Aunt Petunia scolds him for a good half hour for being such a klutz and making a mess with his blood, and then makes him clean it all up before she realizes that Harry’s hands are actually quite injured from the glass.

When they arrive at the hospital, they have to give Harry something to make him sleep, the doctor says, so they can remove the glass. He stays at the hospital for two days, because the glass is so deep that the risk of infection is too high for a child so young to leave.

He still has the scars from those bits of glass, so tiny and yet their imprints lasting forever on his skin. Three little lines on his right palm, two on his left.

He has a burn scar on his knee, from dropping his first lit match in surprise at seven.

He has a scar on the side of his nose, from running down the stairs too fast when he was nine. He tripped, fell down half a flight, and broke his glasses, which cut him.

Ten-year-old him got a scar on his left index finger while chopping a carrot in a rush and slicing his fingertip.

Harry goes to Hogwarts at twelve, and suddenly he is among wizards, magic, Healers—he doesn’t need to keep his scars anymore.

But he does, anyway. He keeps the scar he gets first year, from flying into Oliver Wood during his second Quidditch practice. He keeps the scar he gets second year, scraping the back of his hand on the gravelly floor he scoops Ginny up from in the Chamber. He keeps the scar he gets third year, one of Buckbeak’s spiny back feathers scratching across his stomach as he flies. He keeps the scar he gets fourth year, scraping his foot against the rusty chain binding Ron in place to the bottom of the Lake. He keeps the scar he gets fifth year, not just the I must not tell lies, but the one he gets while duelling Hermione at a D.A. meeting, her Slashing hex hitting him across his chest. He keeps the scar he gets sixth year, Splinching half of his fourth toe off when he Apparates himself and Dumbledore back to Hogsmeade. He keeps the scars he gets in what was meant to be his seventh year, and there are many—falling into a thorn bush in the woods and getting cuts across his back, a slash on his cheek from dodging falling rubble—the list is longer than all the other years’ combined.

He keeps every single scar he’s ever gotten. He has one on his left calf where Padfoot playfully bit him a bit too hard, which he stares at for a long time when he’s particularly missing Sirius. He likes to think he has a scar for every memory he can never allow himself to forget, one for each person who died for him, each person who sacrificed their time and power and _life_ for him.

He lives for them. He no longer lives for himself. He sits and he stares at each and every scar; he just takes a quiet moment and remembers.

This is what he is doing on the first night of eighth year: he is back at Hogwarts to finish school, and he is rooming with Draco Malfoy. Some shit about inter-House unity. 

Malfoy—Draco, Harry has to remind himself (inter-House unity involves being required to call your roommate by their first name), is oddly quiet tonight. He was quite subdued during the day, too. Harry assumes it is the memories of the Battle, the memories of Hogwarts at war. Harry himself still has a screaming nightmare every now and then.

They were all changed by the War. They were all scarred.

Harry turns toward Draco to ask him what time he intends to go to bed, and sees him drop his robe easily on the ground, picking up his nightclothes.

And at what he sees, Harry stops breathing for a moment. Because right there are three angry red scars, stretching across Draco’s chest and stomach, one even reaching his shoulder.

Draco’s gaze snaps onto Harry’s. “Yes, Po-Harry?”

His name sounds strange coming out of Draco’s mouth, but it jolts him back to reality. “Y-your scars,” Harry stammers. Suddenly he realizes where they’re from and his eyes fill with tears. “Fucking hell, Malf- _Draco_ , did _I_ do that?”

Draco just raises a lazy eyebrow at him. “Harry, you of all people should know what it feels like to be judged by your scars.” He gestures to Harry’s forehead, where the curse scar, the cursed scar that began it all, is half-covered by his hair.

Harry nods silently, accepting, and the tension in the room is broken somehow, even though they are quiet again till they wake up.

The next night, Harry is staring his scars again, looking at his shin and remembering how Dobby had enchanted that Bludger, breaking the skin on his leg before managing to break his arm.

And Draco walks over and perches on Harry’s bed next to him.

“What are you doing, Harry?” he asks, looking at the scar, too.

Harry doesn’t answer. After a moment, he says, “I got this scar when Dobby enchanted a Bludger to try and injure me enough to send me home.”

Draco winces at “Dobby” but his eyes are full of understanding. He looks Harry in the eye, and tells him, “I got this scar,” he gestures to his exposed right arm, where there is a silvery film over what looks like a burn, “in the Room of Requirement trying to save Vince from the fire.”

Harry swallows. Neither of them say anything more, just sit there in an almost companionable silence.

It becomes a routine, after that: every night, Draco joins Harry on his bed and both of them each share the story of one scar. This eventually turns into a story sharing session, and they amicably argue about little things, and they grow closer, learning the vulnerable things about each other, and Harry grows to enjoy Draco’s company, enjoy their camaraderie. 

Harry doesn’t know how many nights it’s been, but it’s nearing the end of winter when Draco begins by saying, “This is my last scar. Or, rather, set of scars.” He smirks.

Harry knows which ones he’s talking about. How could he not? With one poorly-timed experimental spell, he could’ve killed Draco. He almost did.

“I got these scars,” Draco drawls, “from a curse this kid pulled on me. Pretty impressive, right? Only seventeen, we were. It was an accident, though.” He turns, and Harry can just feel Draco’s eyes boring into his. They are steely and peaceful and piercing all at once, the silver-grey of a sliver of moonlight. “I forgave him a long time ago.”

Harry forgets how to breathe. Again. He needs to say something, has to tell him, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. He gulps, breathes, tries again. “Draco, I—“

“Ah-ah-ah, don’t tell me you’re sorry. I already know you are, I saw it in your eyes the moment I hit the floor. It’s all right, I’m alive and I’m here.” Draco pauses. “And I’m with you.”

Harry doesn’t deserve this easy forgiveness. He’s caused too many people pain. Draco included—Draco, who had almost died because of him at seventeen.

Draco sees Harry’s hesitation, his struggle. Harry doesn’t understand how Draco sees him, sees through his masks of strength and pride and surety, but he does.

“Scars only show us where we’ve been, Harry, they don’t dictate where we’re going. You can keep living, with your scars across your body, reminding you to move on.”

Harry doesn’t know what to do, or say. They’re having a moment, that’s all he knows. But Draco’s words wash over him, warm and wise, and something inside of Harry knows what he has to do.

Somehow they’ve maintained eye contact all this time, and Harry’s heart is roaring, his ears are ringing, and he leans into Draco and kisses him. And Draco kisses back, he leans in, too, and Harry knows this is where he was meant to be all along—scarred but safe.

Some part of him knows what to say, when they pull away from each other at last. In the silence, the pure, unscathed silence, he whispers, “Here’s to getting new scars, and healing them together. Here’s to a future that’s not dictated by the past.” 

Draco kisses him again, chaste and butterfly-soft.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it! 
> 
> Please let me know as always if you have any comments or suggestions for this fic or others!
> 
> E


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